


A Feast of Ashes (Self-Indulgent smutty gifts)

by Kalendeer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23767789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: A collection of fics that do not fit in a Feast of Ashes, either because they are outside the scope of the story, or because they are just smutty self gifts that aren't (probably) canon.1) Preposterous [Mirfin/Faelin]: An Uruk king working for Sauron and his friend, an Avarin bard, have some fun in between battles.2) For I am fire [Fëanor/Melkor]: An unwilling guest in Angband, Fëanor struggles to resist the ache of the Silmarilli.3) I am yours [Mirfin/Fëanor] : Gift bonus ending to Mirfin's epilogue!
Relationships: Fëanor/Melkor, Mirfin/Faelin, Mirfin/Fëanor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17
Collections: AFeastOfCrack





	1. [Faelin/Mirfin] Preposterous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedicated to my partner-in-shipping, FirstAmazon!
> 
> For newcomers who do not know a Feast of Ashes, Mirfin is a Uruk king working for Sauron and Faelin an Avarin bard.

_**The beginning of the chapter is that of Part 5, chapter 2, when Mirfin is still comatose. Except what he remembers in his coma did not make it to the main fic.** _

***

It feels like floating – being him. Floating at the surface of a pool, neither warm nor cold, arms spread and lungs working out slowly. No current. No wind. No light upon his lids. Some part of him knows what this is, this state of suspension between the depths of oblivion and the harsh world outside. He cannot put words on it. It is a feeling raw and primal as Arda, the knowledge he pushed his Spirit so far it snapped and curled on itself like a small child yearning for the womb.

He knows he will wake.

When?

No matter.

When he is ready, he will desire to wake; when he desires to wake, he will know himself to be ready.

He flexes his fingers. The water feels warm and soft, and it crumples between his fingers. Sometimes it feels like voices against his ears, or sounds like skin trailing on his brow. He sighs softly, because the sounds taste good.

How long does it last?

He does not know. Every moment feels like it encompasses a whole age, and yet to be gone within a blink. He has been sleeping forever, or for less than a heartbeat. He rolls on his side. His cheek burry into something soft that smells like someone. It is a good scent, so he breathes in harder, and curls to bring his whole body closer to it. Voices come and go like the waves of the sea.

He has been to the sea.

How many times? He is not sure. They all seem to blend into one. Perhaps because it was only once. He remembers standing on grey pebbles, under a grey sky, and the see was of a green that lacked colors. Or is it merely that he cannot remember them? There is a woman with a red dress, walking into the water. Her skirt floats around her hips like a bloody flower. She walks, walks, walks. He never stops her, and at some point she is gone, and the world is fully grey again.

A voice brushes against his skin.

_Faelin._

It paints the world around him. That word smells like clean sweat, honey and trees. There were so many trees, were the Elkelli lived – they grew wild apples and pears.

_Faelin?_

It tastes like pears, this word, and sounds like laugher, and Faelin’s wide smile by the fire. His hair cascades down his shoulder like copper.

They have been drinking some local liquor of macerated apples. Mirfin feels too warm. Faelin laughs too much.

“Legends have it,” Faelin says, “that Shadows take those who speak their names. Mirfin.”

“You live dangerously.”

It is not true. Not quite. Some are caught following lost family members, but those are just useful examples to fuel superstitions.

“Perhaps,” a smile that births a dimple, “perhaps I’d like to be taken.”

“This is no joke.”

“Perhaps,” Faelin continues, approaching on all four like a great cat. “Perhaps that would be worth it,” he says, hands reaching Mirfin’s ankles, “to be with you.”

“You would not like that.” His cousin loves his freedom – _loved_ it, enough that his mother could not keep him with their tribe for long. But Finyë is dead now, and Faelin’s smile cannot quite cover the turmoil inside his heart.

Sometimes, Mirfin wonders if he should regret they did not meet earlier, when Faelin was still carefree and happy; but then, he is quite convinced this old Faelin would have seen much less appeal in his armies, his cursed weapons, and his (as legends have it) cursed self.

Mirfin lounges on threadbare cushions. There is a glass, somewhere, that still smells of apple; and now Faelin’s breath, coming far too close to his face, and Faelin’s eyes staring down from up there, and his whole body above Mirfin’s.

“What are you doing?”

No reproaches. He is just mildly baffled by his cousin’s antics.

“Catching shadows.”

Mirfin snorts.

“I am not bringing you back with me.”

“Of course you are.”

“This is no…” _joke_ , he meant to say, before Faelin’s lips sealed his with a kiss. A soft, almost chaste but long kiss, that leaves Mirfin slightly breathless. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“I am not dumb.”

Faelin’s breath tickles his jaw, the soft skin right beneath the ear – then it is a quick dart of the tongue, and a voice, warm and golden like honey: “Seducing you. Catching you in my dream-nets, shadow.”

“This is no joke.” He is a war chief and an assassin. _Shadow_ – this is not a game, not endearing, and in another world, it could have been Faelin’s death. Could still be, if he insists to come to Parzil-Duru.

“Mirfin.” He gives him a necklace of kisses, from ear to ear. “This is just us.”

“What…”

“I want to make love to you, is it not obvious?”

“You are preposterous,” Mirfin answers. Because he does not have sex with males, and because no one makes love _to_ him – except First Sword Maicanga, who does so _with_ him because they are of a rank.

And they do not make _love_.

“Does that mean,” Faelin’s fingers touch his throat, in the dip where bones and tendons meet, and then trail down the v-cut of the neckline. “That you do not consent?”

Then down his chest, slow, slow, slow to his navel…

“You are preposterous, to think anyone can seduce me.”

“Is that a no?” He asks, lips too close, tongue darting to grace Mirfin’s with a touch. “Or are you merely trying to be bossy?”

“I have no need to be _bossy_ ,” Mirfin retorts, pretending to ignore what Faelin’s hand his doing with his pants. “I have an army.”

“And cursed weapons.”

“That, too.”

“Great powers…”

“I can kill you with a scream.”

“I can make you forget your name with my mouth. _Without saying a single word_.”

“You talk too much.”

A kiss, at the base of his neck; then hands, traveling up from his hips to his flanks. Mirfin rolls his shoulder, lets Faelin get his shirt away, caress his flanks with knuckles and nails, kiss his belly and unlace his breeches.

He lets him pleasure him with his mouth, and though it is not enough to make him forget his name, it is definitely enough to quicken his breath, to make him pant and throw his head back at the end. “I love you,” he hears, whispers brushing against hot, wet skin. “I want you.” Hands, roaming down his flanks and his legs. “ _Please_.”

“Preposterous,” Mirfin answers, nails trailing down Faelin’s naked spin. He pulls him down, chest on chest, relishing the weight and the feeling of Faelin’s skin against his. “Weren’t you supposed to make me…”

Faelin’s mouth crashes against his. “ _Please_.”

“What?”

“I want you.”

“How?”

“I want to take you.”

“You cannot _take_ me. That would be an act of war.”

“ _You!_ ”

Mirfin smiles, showing too many teeth.

“I want to,” Faelin starts, his cock still hard and warm against Mirfin’s thigh, “I want to penetrate you. I want to be in you. I want to feel you around me.”

No answer – but a long kiss, tongues meeting, Mirfin’s legs encircling Faelin’s hips and his nails digging into his shoulder as Faelin enters him, oiled and glistening with sweat, out of breath and thoroughly enraptured, chanting into his mouth: _yes, yes, yes, oh, you are so good, yes_ …

Mirfin does not sleep with males.

Except this one. This one can make him pant, can fill him, can burry his wide hand in his hair and pull, this one can devour his throat and repeat over and over and over: _Mirfin, my love, mine, mine, mine_ , _oh, spirits, you are perfect_.

“Do you… like…”

“Yes!”

“You are… so tight… so good…”

“Of course, I am… perfect… at everything…”

“Now…” Ah, the blinding pleasure! “Who is…” Faelin goes deeper, harder, teeth grazing skin, hands gripping almost too hard, “… pre… _preposterous_ …”

Harder.

 _Harder_.

Fuck.

“Yes… yes… yes… more… more…”

Whose voice is it?

“… I love you…”

Hot breath against his ear.

“… mine…”

Tongue upon his skin.

“… more...”

Lips devouring his.

“… you are…”

The pressure, building inside of him with each deep trust.

“… so good…”

His hands, pulling them closer, _closer, yes, yes, take me, harder!_

“Ah!”

Fingers, buried in his hair.

“Please…”

Faelin’s mouth on his, drinking his shouts of pleasure; Faelin’s chest, heaving with his, and the warmth of his skin under Mirfin’s palms, as pleasure dissolves, slow as mist in autumn.

They lay side by side in the darkness, so close their breaths still mingle. The fire is dead, embers drawing them in soft lines of gold. In the emerald fields of Faelin’s eyes, Mirfin still read the same decision: _I will go with you._

He aches. A blissful ache, in his belly – and a painful one, in heart, for he knows this cannot last.


	2. [Fëanor/ Melkor] For I am Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New self indulgent fic, dedicated to FirstAmazon and Astorey_91!
> 
> Because we all know there are far too much UST between those two lol.
> 
> For people who don't know a Feast of Ashes, the scene is set in Angband, where Fëanaro is a prisoner. While this is definitly dubcon, there is no violence/torture/graphical atrocities in this fic.

_Fingers brush against his jaw. It is not even a touch – and yet it inflames like a thousand kisses._

_He must ignore it. Ignore, as well, that the light gracing his skin now is much purer than the sun. it makes everything bigger, more intense,_ _overwhelming_ _, and Fëanaro cannot afford to be overwhelmed. Even as his hands itch with the desire to rip out his blindfold, he knows he cannot, for he would be utterly lost._

A Feast of Ashes, part 4, chapter 3

He can only hear the black stone clicking – not see it, not with the Light of the Silmarilli so close to him. The stone is black marble, roughly the size or his thumb’s nail, easily _felt_ through his heightened senses over the wooden board and amongst his own, white granite pawns.

“Your turn,” Melkor says, his deep voice sending shivers into Fëanaro.

It is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous that the Vala rises to such heat in his belly, just by _being_ , his overwhelming presence as fascinating as wildfire. Fëanaro’s hands close on his tights; kneeling on the ground, sitting on his heels, he tries to focus on the board, and _only_ the board.

Under normal circumstances, playing the Little War Game would be challenging, as Fëanaro had very little time to train – not that Melkor got a lot more, but _he_ is not playing blindfolded, nor does he have to resist the maddening lure of the Silmarilli or to try to perceive the position of the stones with newly acquired powers.

“Your turn,” Melkor repeats.

“I heard you the first time. Let me focus.” Each stone must conquer new space without overextending his lines or opening unprotected flanks, so he needs to know precisely where Melkor’s stones are. At this point of the game, the board is crowded enough that Fëanaro has troubles picturing where he can attack.

His white stone feels smooth between his fingers. If he concentrates, he can feel the very nature of it – it’s weight, the minerals packed tight, a glimpse of the forces that crushed them into this, so long ago…

“Your turn.”

He slams the stone on the board.

“I am sick of your taunting.”

Melkor’s laugh washes over him like thunder, low and reaching deep within him. How Fëanaro hates that he aches for more – no. In truth, he does not. This is all a trick. His Silmarilli, awakening unholy hunger nothing can satisfy.

“This is just a game,” the Vala says, almost kindly, which is a cruelty of its own. He knows Fëanaro wants none of that from him.

“You would find this game much less funny, Morgoth, if it was at your expense.”

Fëanaro hears the ruffle of clothes, feels the Light moving on his skin, getting closer, _warmer_. He fights the urge to turn like a sunflower. Even as his heart beats fasters and his lungs want to take in too much air, he wills himself to be still.

He feels Melkor sitting behind him. He feels him leaning forward. He feels his arm brushing his shoulder as the Vala puts one of his black stones on the board. His breath tickles his neck; the elf’s high collar is not enough to stop it completely.

Fëanaro breathes in, sharply, too sharply.

This is nothing. Just an illusion. Just the combined pull of Melkor’s nature (the purity of air after a storm and yet, also the smell of metal whitened by heat) and the Silmarilli.

Melkor withdraws.

His sleeve brushes against Fëanaro’s thigh as he does.

 _Shahât_ , Fëanaro swears in the local tongue, and though he tried to keep the thought to himself, Melkor’s low chuckle tells him he did not.

“You should be kinder to yourself.”

Fëanaro breathes out, nose flaring with annoyance. “I still have some self-respect.”

“Why? Because you deny yourself relief you may so easily have?”

“Not from you.” His body would not mind. Being close to Melkor was ever a powerful experience, even in Valinor – and now it is, more than ever, intoxicating, bringing heat to his cheeks and the sensitive skin between his thighs, pouring hot water in his entrails.

He takes one of his own white stones. Perhaps he should lose on purpose. Melkor will not like that, and will most likely find a subtle way to punish him. Fëanaro is not expected to win; only to try hard enough.

Despite everything. The blindfold over his eyes, dark linen draped until nothing but darkness can grace his eyes. The gloves to protect his skin from the Light. The high collar and the longue sleeves.

Despite everything, he still feels too much.

“Not here,” Melkor says. His wide hand closes around Fëanaro’s before he can let his stone down, pushing it a little to the left.

The feeling of it almost brings tears to his eyes – the firmness, the long fingers closing around his, the energy running high like statics. The Vala could crush him. Fëanaro is not fragile, and yet…

But it does not seek to crush. Only to contain and control. To lean forward, until Melkor’s chest stands an inch away from Fëanaro’s back, heat building up between them.

“Here. Are you trying to lose?”

“Of course not.”

 _Yes_.

He stays very still. So does Melkor, for a while, before he lets go of Fëanaro’s hand. Then the Vala brushes at his temple, at the bands of linen, almost offering to take them off.

It is so, so very tempting.

“You went so far for them. Will you not welcome the relief they give you?”

It is so, so very tempting – a mad ache, a taste at the back of his tongue, hunger devouring Fëanaro’s belly.

“If you want to help, give them back and let me go.”

A low chuckle rolls from the nap of Fëanaro’s neck down his spin, straight to his loin; knuckles play along his jaw.

“Take them. They are just there, Fëanaro.”

Nails, grazing down his neck. The elf takes in a sharp breath, steels himself against the touch, a touch that should be almost nothing but makes him part his lips and feel desperately thirsty – he steels himself, but then another hand settles on his belly. Flat, following the rhythm of Fëanaro’s respiration, unmoving but for the thumb, rubbing up and down, down toward… but never enough to _reach_.

“No,” Fëanaro gasps.

“So, you do not want them?” Melkor asks, voice caressing the lines of Fëanaro’s ear, the high cheekbones, the skin that already seem so hot and so _sensitive_ under the Light.

“Yes.”

“You are being unclear.” The hand moves down, agonizingly slow, stopping almost immediately. “What do you want?”

Fëanaro opens his mouth to – what? Shout? Explain himself in some articulate, civilized way?

Melkor’s tongue slides along the side of his ear, wet and warm, and all that goes out of Fëanaro’s mouth is a gasp of pleasure.

“What do you want, Narya?” He is pulled closer, the hot space between his back and Melkor’s turning into a firm chest, Melkor’s hand pushing his hips back.

“No.”

“No is not a valid answer to an open question.”

Fëanaro’s robe is sliding off one shoulder. Slowly, so very slowly, and _shahât_ , he has hands to stop this – hands of his own, that the Noldo hasn’t considered using at all.

But the Light warms his shoulder like nothing can, so good and nourishing, and when Fëanaro’s hand seeks the hem of his clothes, he cannot bring himself to cover the skin again.

“Do you want me,” Melkor purrs, nudging the crook of his neck, “to stop?”

“No,” Fëanaro answers. What did he answer to, really? _Do you want me?_

_Yes._

_No!_

He wants the _Silmarilli_. It is just a trick, a trick of the Light, a trick of Melkor’s hand moving to caress the sensitive skin inside his thighs through the silk, a trick of his tongue upon his jugular and…

Fëanaro turns in Melkor’s arms, hands spread flat on the muscular chest. He is wearing embroidered silk, and the feel of the stitches under Fëanaro’s palms almost drives him mad. He looks up, head thrown back – toward _them_ , those cursed, beloved things.

His blindfold is not thick enough. It is like standing under the lightest of rain; would be, if each drop landing on his brow could be pure extasy.

“Do you want…”

“ _Yes_.” Everything.

Light.

Touch.

Light.

Taste (that of earth and ice and sky, that can be drunk only from the mouth of a Vala).

“ _More_ ,” he begs – orders, hands grasping Melkor’s shoulders. He straddles him, hips against hips, moaning: “More!” as Melkor’s hand travels from his ankle to the soft skin behind the knee, then up to the valley between hip and buttocks. “ _Yes_.”

“What do you want?”

It shakes him like thunder, rolling on the hills, going straight to his belly.

Light. It is always Light he wants.

“ _Them_.”

“Then come and get them.”

Fëanaro grabs a fistful of hair, close to the skull, thick hair that must cascade like dark silk around his arms. His tongue trails on Melkor’s lip, on the straight line of the nose, finds the cold taste of iron, and then…

 _Them_.

The taste of Light upon his tongue so intoxicating, the warmth of them against the skin of his face – he feels his belly clench, his limbs shudder and his mind go away.

Just a little.

He pants, lips quivering against the iron crown, pants as he feels one long, thick finger inside him, slippery and _pushing_ right _there_ – “Yes,” he moans, “ _yes_!”

“More?”

Fëanaro shouts: “YES!”

And there is more, working him, going deeper as he cries, moans, grind his hips against Melkor’s belly, lips begging for more and legs trembling so hard he would fall if Melkor weren’t keeping him close, secured against his chest. 

He does not know how the blindfold slips – but it does, as he rides the beginning of an orgasm, and the Light hits him like the birth of a star, expanding forever in his eyes and his chest, until he cannot remember anything but the sheer, pure extasy of it. He is no one; not a single though remain. All is blasted away and he is left empty, lips still trembling from the memory of his cries of pleasure, hips shaking and weak.

He wakes, hours later, in the bed with the black sheet. Their silk is so fine it falls like water from his skin – another caress, cold again his naked body, that makes him aches. But it is only the phantom of it, nothing more than the song of the sea inside a shell, nothing compared to the great crashing waves he rode.

He promises himself that will not happen again – that he will resist better, shield his heart, make himself be as cold steel, unfeeling and without wants.

And yet.

He made that promise – how many times? And could not keep it.

For he is Fire, and cannot help but burn.


	3. [Mirfin/Fëanaro] I am yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of Mirfin’s epilogue for FirstAmazon, with my deepest thanks for her lovely comments, enthusiasm, and for being a most wonderful reader <3

All it takes is one stare from those silver eyes. One stare, aimed at Mirfin's heart, threatening to undo him ; he walked a fine line, Mirfin and Mirfinwë, himself hidden inside himself, but he is not sure this is a charade he can sustain with Fëanaro by his side.

He never left Fëanaro ; he never truly considered the gaping hole left by Fingolfin either. It was like a wound that did not exist if he refused to look at it, one he could endure like a constant, vague itch in his chest.

Now...

Now, he must either cauterize the wound with fire, send Fëanaro back to Parzil Duru, pretend Mirfinwë never existed, or...

The sun, outside, is shining too bright between the clouds.

Time to retreat to his chamber; no matter that Mirfinwë could bear the Trees without blinking, when Mirfin's eyes are the ones trying to behold day. The bedroom is blissfully dark and blissfully _empty_.

He should be able to think clearly, without Fëanaro's intruding presence.

All he feels is a hungry void, and a hunger no amount of poetry, power and cruelty can fill ; a thirst for air, a need for touch and voices, and when Fëanaro's arms close around him, when his lips move against his ear, when his voice resonates into the deepest recesses of his mind and body, he can only hear : “Do you want me to leave?”

Yes – yes, he wants him to leave, to take with him the embers in his chest. Mirfin should open his chest, cut the heart away; wound ribbons of iron upon it, ensure nothing touch it again. He should send Fëanaro away before the embers become a raging fire, but…

Too late. Already his brother’s lips brushes against his ear, and the waves of his breath reach into Mirfin’s chest, quicken his heart; light something in him like a spark can light a dry sea of grass.

Too late.

He is drowning in fire. _Never again_ , he thinks; “never again,” he gasps. He turns in Fëanaro’s arms, his face against his neck, lips touching the skin where blood pulses.

He should tell him to leave. It is wrong, there are so many reasons to push him away, so many reasons to refrain from tasting the sweat of his skin, tongue following the lines of the neck to the jaw; so many reasons not to burry his hands in the dark cascade of silk; so many reasons to step back.

Mirfin does not. Never again – he cannot. Cannot step away, cannot let Fëanaro’s hair flow away from his fingers, cannot keep his lips away from his jaw, from the corner of the lips. Cannot keep himself from meeting this mouth, closed lips upon closed lips, soft, and chaste as Fëanaro’s arms pull him closer. As if trying to make them one, chest against chest, hands throwing wood into the flames with each touch.

He opens his lips. Breathes link, mingle – air upon flames ; teeth upon lips, wordless words, exchanged from tongue to tongue : _I love you, I am cold without you, I love, burn me, set me alight, I am yours_.

“I know,” Fëanaro says. His eyes are stars, his scars shining like light pouring through diamonds. “I know – I am yours and you are mine.”

***

Fëanaro’s hair is not truly black. Mirfin plays idly with a white strand. The illusion was a good one, or he would have seen through it right away – but an illusion it was.

They may have felt free.

They are still slaves.

Mirfin used no to be bothered by this. He was a slave for the longest time – but Mirfinwë was not. Not really. Mirfinwë’s chains of duty could be laid down, though it was never in his nature. But Fëanaro…

Mirfin closes the space between them, his naked chest against Fëanaro’s naked back, arm around his waist, legs entwinning. He feels his lover’s heart beating, and it is like they are beating together.

 _Lover_.

Mirfinwë would never have…

But he is Mirfin, too, and in some way that gives him a freedom Valinor would never have awarded. He cares not that the Eldar would look at them with disgust. He cares not that they would say _you love him badly_ , _this is not how it is done_ – they started in the dark, they started ugly, they started like a broken story.

Fëanaro’s hand finds Mirfin’s. Squeezes softly. He sighs softly, a sleepy song, and lazily presses back; offers his neck to Mirfin’s kisses, pushes against him, as if they were not close enough.

They are not.

Not after so long, so Mirfin’s butterfly kisses turn into bites, into hands trailing down, a knee pushing legs apart. “Love?” He asks, voice deep and raw from night and want.

“Yes.” Still half asleep, yet demanding. “Yes,” Fëanaro agrees, repeats, begs with body and words: _yes, make me yours, make us one, yes, oh yes!_

And in the throws of passion: _Yes, my husband, be mine!_

Mirfin should disagree.

He should send him away.

He should keep them safe, keep them loyal to the gods, separate enough… but the fire grows, his heart is full of blinding light, his skin exists only for Fëanaro to touch it, his voice only for Fëanaro to hear him, his eyes only to beheld his reddened lips, his dilated pupils, his body arching with passion.

It is foolish.

“Yes,” Mirfin repeats.

Accepts.

Lets himself be marked, and belong to another.

“Yes, husband of mine.”

Now, and until the death of Arda herself breaks them apart.


End file.
